Crazy Little Thing Called Friendship
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Sherlock comes home one day wanting the couch, but finds John already using it. Supposed to be bromance. Might be OOC, because it's fluffy and sweet. And it's probably before Reichenbach, but after Baskerville. Any questions?


Sherlock was displeased: he'd come home from being kidnapped by Mycroft, expecting to collapse on the couch for a couple of hours and recover, only to find John already there, sound asleep. How very inconsiderate of the doctor; didn't he know how much Sherlock needed the couch right now?

Logically, the best way to solve this problem was to move him, which might involve waking him up; but as he removed his coat and scarf, dropping them to the floor, he took a long look at John. He'd been at the surgery all day, judging by the smells of disinfectant and peroxide still emanating from his clothes. Last night, and the night before that, he'd been up late helping Sherlock with a case, some of the incidents that took place therein being what had led to Sherlock's aforementioned kidnapping. There were dark circles under his eyes, making him look like a strange blond raccoon, and Sherlock could tell that when he'd arrived home he'd gone straight to the sofa, barely kicking off his shoes before he collapsed. No question, the man was exhausted; he hadn't bothered to so much as make tea. Faced with all this evidence, even Sherlock Holmes didn't have the heart to wake him.

If he hadn't been so busy thinking what to do now, the detective would have been alarmed at this consideration for his flatmate's needs above his own. After all, sociopaths aren't supposed to care about other people, and usually he wouldn't care if something more important had come up. And normally, he would prioritize his needs/wants as more important, selfish though it might be. But something inside him whispered now, _This is John. He's not like other people: I need to respect his desire for sleep, and not bother him right now. Whatever else I do, I must not disturb John._

With that solution rendered unavailable, Sherlock considered others. He could not bother with collapsing, and just do an experiment in the kitchen, or go out again, or something. Not in the mood; he wanted to recuperate from spending so much time in close proximity with his elder sibling, and more stimulation to his brain by doing something that required a lot of thought wouldn't help. He could sit in his chair, or go to his room and lie on the bed, or even just lie down on the floor. The floor was too hard, his room was too far away, and even though the chair was rather inviting, the contrary part of his personality (i.e. 60%) wasn't ready to give up hope for the sofa. He could sit on John-instantly he dismissed the idea as ridiculous. It would be uncomfortable, and would probably wake John up, not to mention result in Sherlock's imminent demise. No, there was one other solution that would at least somewhat satisfy the detective, and at the same time leave the doctor in peace.

After retrieving his phone from his coat pocket, and a book from the shelf, Sherlock stood for a second in front of his sleeping friend, before laying the items aside on the arm of the couch. Then, in a manner that was unusually gentle for him, he lifted John's head and upper body, settled himself in the spot previously occupied by them, and then lowered John's head down onto his lap. John shifted a bit, seemed on the verge of waking up, but once Sherlock had him settled, drifted back into deep sleep. With a pleased smile at the success of his solution, the detective opened his book, leaning it on the arm with his right hand. And his left hand, needing something to do, began to massage its way through John's hair, memorizing the feel of it, the length (or lack thereof), and the different bumps and dips of his doctor's scalp. As he did so, his stresses and irritations melted like snow around a campfire, and his hard drive brain went on a kind of screensaver. It felt wonderful. And he noticed that even though John was asleep, he leaned into Sherlock's hand, and evidently took pleasure in the experience as well. If he woke up, of course, he'd probably be very embarrassed, and go on about how people would definitely talk. But if he did, Sherlock would just reassure his friend that it was for an experiment in relaxing his thoughts, nothing more. And John would probably sigh, and say to warn him next time he was going to do an experiment like that, and then get up and make tea. Mmm, some tea would be good right now. But he could wait until John had rested his weary body a bit longer.

Anyone looking through the window of Baker Street that evening would-well, would be very creepy, for one thing. But they would also see an unusually blissful, tender moment in the lives of Sherlock and John.


End file.
